


Paint You Like a Picture

by Deisderium



Series: An Appreciation for Art [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bucky as a Canvas, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Got a Few Feels In This Porn, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mysteriously This Painting Also Looks a Lot Like Bucky, POV Bucky Barnes, Painting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 09:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17383841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: Bucky comes home from work to find Steve at a stopping point in his work; Steve is still feeling artsy.





	Paint You Like a Picture

"I'm home," Bucky called as the door fell shut behind him. He tossed his hat on the hatstand and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it below his hat. "Steve?" 

When there was no answer, he grinned and kept walking, unbuttoning his shirt. He could see Steve, working bent over the table. He'd gotten a series of advertisements for men's shirts, and they'd taken off well enough that they'd hired him for another set. These were nothing like the eight-pagers he still occasionally did, but to Bucky's eye, there was still something charged about them, something about the men that looked sensual. 

Maybe that was just his relationship with the artist, though. 

"Steve?" he said quietly as he got closer, but still nothing.

He walked around to the side of the table, slowly, trying to get in Steve's line of sight. He didn't want to startle him into messing up the painting. If Steve was deep enough into it that he didn't hear Bucky talking to him, it must be going well. He leaned a little closer. From this angle, he could see Steve's lashes, lowered against his cheek, and concentration furrowed into his brow. "Steve?" 

Steve blinked, and then he looked up, eyes a little unfocused. "Hey, Buck. I didn't hear you come in." Bucky smiled, struck all over again with fondness.

"Painting going okay?" 

"Going pretty good. Something's missing though. I can't quite figure out what." Steve set his brush down and stretched, lacing both hands together over his head. He arched back, the sleeves of his shirt--an old one of Bucky's that he wore when he painted, long-since stained with many kinds of paint and too big for him--sliding down to reveal his bony wrists, the thin fabric pressing against the crooked curve of his spine. Bucky licked his lips without meaning to, and saw Steve track the movement. Steve lowered his arms and smiled back, the expression a little predatory. "About time to take a break, though." 

Bucky's fingers had stilled on his buttons, watching Steve, but he got them moving again, letting the shirt hang loose over his undershirt. Steve's gaze dropped from his mouth to his chest and Bucky slid his button-down over his shoulders and draped it over the kitchen chair Steve wasn't using. "Yeah, maybe if you get fresh eyes on it, you'll figure it out. Can I see what you're working on?" 

Steve stood and spun the illustration board just far enough that Bucky could get a good look at it. The man in the shirt was sitting on a desk, a book propped open in one hand, his dark hair pomaded back, looking off to the side. Bucky tilted the board a little, mindful of the wet paint, enough to catch the familiar cleft in the man's chin, rendered in sure, spare brushstrokes. He hoped the more detailed rendering of the pinstripes in the shirt would distract anyone else from the love he saw in every line. 

"You gonna paint me into all of these, pal?" 

"I can't help it if you inspire me." Steve cracked his knuckles. Bucky set the painting carefully back on the table and tugged Steve close by the collar of his shirt. 

"You inspire me to somethin'." He'd abandoned this shirt when it started sprouting holes, the result of having been washed thin. Another result of multiple washings was that he could see Steve's nipples shadowed through the thin fabric between splotches of paint. Steve hadn't worn an undershirt--he got hot while he was working, even with the windows open, so if he wasn't going anywhere, he often didn't. 

Bucky let go when Steve was right in front of him, and the too-large shirt collar slid to the side, exposing a sharp collarbone smudged with orange paint. Bucky ran his thumb along the smudge, smiling at the indrawn hiss of Steve's breath. Then he put his hand over the narrow expanse of Steve's chest and smeared the orange on his thumb over Steve's nipple. He pushed a little harder, to feel the flesh harden under his touch and to hear Steve moan, his head falling back for a second. His pupils wide, Steve looked down at the new smudge of paint on his shirt, then back at Bucky.

"Oh, so that's how it is." Steve turned back to the painting and frowned at it--no, frowned at his brushes. He picked one out of the glass of water, turned back to Bucky, and dragged it over _his_ collarbone. It was cold, and Bucky jumped. He'd been half-hard before, but suddenly his cock was aching, tenting out his pants. Steve glanced down, and his smile stretched into a smirk.

"You better get your undershirt off," Steve said, his voice half an octave deeper than it had been a moment ago. Bucky shimmied out of his undershirt as fast as he could and tossed it on the floor, not much caring where it landed. Steve looked him over thoughtfully. Bucky's nipples tightened under his gaze and his breath came faster. Steve touched his brush to his palette and drew a bright blue line from Bucky's clavicular notch down to his navel. Steve dabbed a bit of red on the tip of his brush and circled his left nipple, scarlet that turned to purple as it mixed with the paint that was already there. 

"Steve, fuck," was all Bucky could manage, because as it turned out, Steve painting on him turned his brain to mush. He didn't even know why; the paint was chilly and wet and shouldn't have him panting to have Steve touch him again, but he was. His breath was coming fast, his chest heaving. The paint was cold, but he felt it like a brand where Steve had touched him. Steve dabbed his paint in his palette again and gave Bucky's torso an assessing look. 

Bucky reached out and put his hands on Steve's slim hips. He pushed the soft, worn fabric of the shirt up his sides slowly, feeling the exquisite bump of each rib, not yet letting himself touch skin. Steve bit his lower lip, then painted a stripe of coral across Bucky's chest. Bucky slid his hands under Steve's shirt. Steve's skin was warm and a little sweaty and Bucky wanted nothing more than to taste it. He leaned forward and sucked a kiss onto the skin of Steve's sternum, worked his way over to his nipple. Enough orange paint had rubbed through the thin shirt that flecks of it lingered on Steve, bright against pink-flushed skin. 

"What kind of paint you using today?" Bucky asked, in the interest of not poisoning himself. 

"Gouache," Steve said, his voice breathy. "Go ahead, if you want to." Bucky wanted to, all right, so he licked over the nub of Steve's nipple, teasing it to hardness, the paint a flat non-flavor over the salt of Steve's skin. Steve's breath hitched hard and Bucky sucked it into his mouth, scraped gently with his teeth. Steve tugged at his hair and Bucky looked up. 

Steve had bitten his lower lip red. Bucky leaned down and kissed him, trying to convey the depth of his want with his mouth, with his body. He'd never be an artist like Steve, able to imbue a painting with love for its subject; he had to work with the tools he was given.

He pulled Steve's shirt up. It was loose enough on him that he didn't even have to unbutton it, just tugged it over Steve's shoulders and head. Steve's torso was long and slender, his muscles wiry rather than bulky. Bucky loved the way his musculature pressed against the confines of his skin, not padded by much in the way of fat, the architecture of his bones elegant where they intersected with skin: the jut of his iliac crest, the arch of his ribcage. Bucky'd had time to get used to the fact that he could touch Steve the way he'd wanted to for years, but he didn't take it for granted. He ran his hands along Steve's ribcage, over his belly, his thumbs stroking over his hipbones. Steve sighed, and the sound wrapped around Bucky's spine. 

Steve reached out for Bucky's belt. Smears of paint had dried on his hands, under his fingernails. Bucky watched as Steve undid the buckle, then moved to the fly. He popped the buttons with agonizing slowness, then wrapped long artist's fingers around Bucky's cock. The groan that left Bucky's mouth seemed very loud. He rocked forward to get Steve's khakis undone, clumsy with the strength of his want. 

It was easy to slide the khakis over Steve's slim hips once they were unfastened. The thin cotton of his shorts was already wet and Bucky trailed a finger over the fabric stretched over Steve's cock. Steve sucked in a breath and his eyelashes fluttered. 

Bucky dropped to his knees and pulled Steve's shorts down. Steve swayed a little as his cock sprang free, flushed and shiny with precome. Bucky ran his thumb from head to root, then curled his hand around the base, the hairs soft and crinkled against his skin. He licked up the path he'd just traced. "Buck," Steve said hoarsely, "sweetheart," and that lit his insides up like an incandescent bulb. Steve talking sweet to him made him feel like candy in the sun, sugary and stretched out and melted.

He took the tip of Steve's cock into his mouth and sucked, then opened his mouth to slide down. Steve's fingers clenched on his shoulders, and he reached up with his free hand to squeeze Steve's hand for a second. Steve's breath stuttered, but Bucky had become a connoisseur of Steve's breaths, and this was only pleasure. He fell into a rhythm, up and down, letting his fingers spread his spit where his mouth couldn't reach, feeling the pulse of Steve's blood against his fingers. He was almost shocked when the pressure of Steve's hands changed from digging into the muscle of his shoulders into drawing him up to stand with Steve. 

Steve kissed into his mouth, messy and wet, and the two of them rocked up against each other. Steve's erection was a line of heat against Bucky's hip. He groaned and leaned into it, the friction on his own dick almost secondary to the feel of Steve pressed against him. 

Steve trailed kisses down Bucky's neck, shoved his pants down around his knees, and turned him so that their hips were flush. Bucky groaned as Steve lined up their cocks together and wrapped a hand around the both of them. He looked down, and had to tilt his head and sink his teeth into the meat of Steve's shoulder. The heads of their cocks were pushed up together in Steve's paint-smudged fingers, red and shiny as his hand moved up and down their lengths. His whole body was hot with pleasure, every inch of him, every particle, every hair. He came like that, head buried against Steve's shoulder, sucking a bruise onto Steve's skin, and Steve came a second later. 

The two of them stood for a minute, panting and wobbling against each other. Bucky finally lifted his head and looked down. He was a fucking mess, covered in paint and both their come. Steve followed his gaze and smiled, running a finger through the paint and come together, drawling a lazy spiral on Bucky's chest, stopping over his heart. Bucky kissed him again, this time slower, sweeter, and went to get a washrag to clean the both of them up. 

After dinner, they sat together, Bucky reading the newest _Amazing Stories_ , Steve working on his painting. Bucky looked up when Steve made a soft _aha_ noise and reached for another board. Bucky watched him sketch for a while, the story momentarily forgotten, until he stopped and stretched again, and then Bucky came over and looked over his shoulder. 

"So it's a two page spread now?" he asked.

Steve rolled his shoulders, and Bucky dug into them with his thumbs, feeling for the knots sitting hunched at the table had left. Steve sighed and leaned back into his hands. "Yeah. I think they'll buy it. Another chance to sell a shirt, right? But even if they don't..." He craned his head around to catch Bucky's eyes. "It's what was missing." 

Bucky looked back at the shapes Steve had already roughed in on the page. Another man, in an armchair, reading a newspaper was now looking back at the man with a book. It was so domestic--it could have been nearly any day from their lives, it could have been this evening, after they'd cleaned themselves up. He bent down and dropped a kiss over the bruise he'd left on Steve's shoulder earlier. 

"Yeah, you're right," he told Steve. "Now it's perfect." 

**Author's Note:**

> So in this fic I gave Steve JC Leyendecker's Arrow shirt ad campaign. [JC Leyendecker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._C._Leyendecker) was a gay artist whose lover was often his model--it seemed like a good fit! 
> 
> The specific ad that Steve is painting here is this one:  
> 
> 
> Leyendecker also did a series of [sock ads](https://www.google.com/search?q=leyendecker+sock+ads&safe=active&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjb24ShmubfAhWRmuAKHfrTC7AQsAR6BAgAEAE&biw=1366&bih=657) that are something to behold that I really wanted to work into this fic but will save for another day, since I have a few (oh fine, several) ideas for Steve arting and Bucky really appreciating it through the years now.


End file.
